Searchlights
by DellaDay
Summary: Sometimes it's wiser not to go by the book.


Disclaimer: I do not own any of the characters in this story.

_Searchlights on Health_ is a real book, published in 1920. Every sentence that Matthew reads is taken from it verbatim.

* * *

Cold, wet weather made Matthew Crawley's back and legs ache and on this dismal day he had arrived home limping so badly that his wife had run a hot bath for him.

He felt better as soon as he stepped into the tub. They'd converted a small bedroom into a new white-painted bathroom, much more airy, light and spacious than the dark cupboard that they'd had before. He'd had to draw his knees up to his chin to fit into the old tub with its splintered wooden surround. Now he could lean against the back of the tub, stretch out his legs and relax, letting the hot scented water soothe away the soreness.

He opened the book he'd picked up from his wife's nightstand while she was running the bath. It had been sent to her by one of her American cousins and she'd had her nose buried in it all week.

_Searchlights on Health, The Science of Eugenics, A Guide to Purity and Physical Manhood, Advice to Maiden, Wife and Mother, Love, Courtship and Marriage, 1920._ Its title alone was a mouthful.

He had leafed through it when it had arrived, puzzled by its odd mixture of frank information about pregnancy and childbirth coupled with an attitude towards the expectant mother that was positively Victorian, despite the book's recent publication date. There was much twittering about the modesty and delicacy of the weaker sex, as though they became pregnant by being sprinkled with fairy dust, and then he'd turned a page to find an illustration of the female reproductive organs right out of his father's medical library.

Now he saw that the authorship was shared between two doctors, with half-a-score of "Well-known Authorities" credited as well. That must explain the shifts in tone. Perhaps one author had had to hide his blushes behind a fan as he wrote, while the other let the chips fall where they might. The idea amused him.

He started paging through it from the beginning, stopping whenever something caught his eye. It certainly covered the gamut.

_Sensible Hints on Choosing a Partner, Popping the Question. A man of intelligence and self-respect will not ask a lady twice. It is begging for recognition and lowers his dignity, should he do so. A lady is supposed to know her heart sufficiently to consider the question to her satisfaction before giving an answer._

Well, that was rubbish, wasn't it?

_Many a time the girl has said "No" because the question was so worded that the affirmative did not come from the mouth naturally; and two lives that gravitated toward each other with all their inward force have been thrown suddenly apart, because the electric keys were not carefully touched._

That made rather more sense, despite the purple prose. He could write a few tips of his own on how to propose successfully. Never shout "If you love me, say Yes! If you don't, say No!" at the lady in question. On the other hand, if the lady tells you to get down on one knee, do it.

_The Wedding, Advice to Newly Married Couples, Sexual Proprieties and Improprieties. It is a hygienic and physiological fact that those who indulge only once a month receive a far greater degree of the intensity of enjoyment than those who indulge their passions more frequently. _

Just as well, then, that the Crawleys indulged their passions more frequently, if that's what it was called. If their enjoyment became any more intense, they'd spontaneously combust.

_The Male Generative Organs, The Female Sexual Organs._

Now this was more to the purpose. He'd seen illustrations like these when he'd peeked into his father's medical texts but it was probably the first time that most readers would see what their insides looked like. It was very interesting to know, although he had the same thought that he'd had as a schoolboy ... it looked like rather a tight squeeze for the baby.

_Diseases of Pregnancy, Morning Sickness._

Morning sickness he knew all about by now, but these other ailments ... did every pregnant woman suffer them? They must be damned uncomfortable.

_Signs and Symptoms of Labor. After an uncertain length of time, the pains alter in character. From being "grinding" they become "bearing down," and more regular and frequent, and the skin becomes both hot and perspiring. These may be considered the true labor-pains. The patient ought to bear in mind then that "true labor-pains" are situated in the back, and loins; they come on at regular intervals, rise gradually up to a certain pitch of intensity, and abate as gradually; it is a dull, heavy, deep sort of pain, producing occasionally a low moan from the patient; not sharp or twinging, which would elicit a very different expression of suffering from her._

He felt the first faint sensation of dread curling in his stomach. Of course one knew that women suffered in childbirth, in an abstract sort of way. But this would be happening to his wife.

_Schedule for Feeding Infants in the First Year. Age: 2d to 7th day, Interval between meals by day: 2 hours, Night feedings 10 p.m. to 7 a.m.: 1, No. of feedings in 24 hours: 10, Quantity for one feeding: 1 to 1-1/2 ounces, Quantity in 24 hours: 10 to 15 ounces_

This went on for pages. What would happen if one accidentally gave the baby 1-3/4 ounces instead? Something terrible, no doubt. How had babies survived in the past without all this measuring and time-keeping? The thought came unbidden that many had not, nor had many mothers.

_Home Treatments for the Diseases of Infants and Children._

Croup, diphtheria, scarlet fever. He remembered those words from conversations that he wasn't meant to overhear, when his father had arrived home exhausted from a night by a patient's bedside.

_Prenatal Influences. Ungoverned passions in the parents may unloose the furies of unrestrained madness in the minds of their children. In view of the preceding statements, what a responsibility rests upon the parents! From the lovers' first thought of marriage to the birth of the child, every step of the way should be paved with the snow-white blossoms of pure thought. _

The snow-white what? He refused to accept that harm could be caused to a child by its parents' thoughts but he was troubled at the thought of his wife reading this, perhaps half-believing it.

_Solemn Lessons for Parents. A bad mental condition of the mother may produce serious defects upon her unborn child._

What a false, cruel thing to write for an expectant mother to read. He dropped the book onto the floor and leaned back, closing his eyes. Small wonder that she had seemed pre-occupied and withdrawn all week. He'd put it down to the moodiness he'd been warned about, that was presumed to affect every pregnant woman. But now he was feeling rather anxious himself.

He had reacted to the news like any new father. Pride, anticipation, relief that everything down there was working as it should. Solicitude for his wife, although she hadn't been very appreciative. "Shouldn't you be sitting down, dear?" "Oh, honestly, Matthew."

He'd started making plans to convert the rooms across the hall. The big room would be the nursery, the little one would do for the nurserymaid's bedroom and they could turn the big closet into a bathroom. She had shot those ideas down. They'd need the entire top floor for the night nursery, the day nursery, Nanny's bedroom and sitting-room ...

That was when the row had started, over Nanny. He'd thought they had settled this while they were still engaged. He would never understand the upper-class mania for handing their lives over to strangers. He didn't want some crone locking away his children on the top floor, teaching them Lord knows what, bringing them downstairs to mama and papa for an hour before tea. Why couldn't they follow the new fashion of hiring some smart young college-trained maternity nurse, as their friends had, to stay for a few months and then blessedly leave them in peace? But his wife had been adamant as only she could be. People of their class had nannies, that was all there was to it. They'd gone at it hammer and tongs.

But that was before he had looked through the book. He'd had no idea that caring for babies could be quite so ... daunting. Even if some of the book's advice was rubbish, there seemed to be so many things one had to know, so many things that could go wrong.

He heard her come into the room. "Feeling better, darling?"

"Much."

"More hot water?"

"Yes, please."

She turned off the hot tap and came to sit beside him on the low stool next to the tub where he'd dropped his dressing gown.

"I do wish you'd consider a valet."

"I'm a grown man, I don't need another man to give me a bath."

"He could help you out of the bath when your back is troubling you."

"I don't see the point of hiring someone to sit around and wait for a wet day."

The only valeting he'd felt comfortable with had been at the hands of Bates and William. Bates with great kindness and tact had performed the most intimate tasks for him while his legs had been useless, with never any feeling of embarrassment or awkwardness. But he couldn't have Bates. Perhaps if William had lived ... He still missed William.

He opened his eyes and regarded his wife. She was sitting silent and abstracted, gazing down at her hands folded in her lap. He felt suddenly contrite.

"I do like being given a bath by a beautiful woman. Care to wash my back?"

She took the sponge and started scrubbing his shoulders vigorously, treating the dark-skinned saddle of scar tissue across his lower back more gently, splashing the water a little as she bent over him. He couldn't resist teasing. "I'm the one who should get wet, not you."

She ignored him, murmured "Your hair needs washing", and got up to fetch the shampoo powder. He sighed with pleasure as she massaged the lather into his hair and tipped a pitcher of clean warm water over his head. It was nice to be babied like this. He supposed it wouldn't happen so often once the real thing came along.

She went to re-fill the pitcher at the sink and he leaned back against the rim of the tub to watch her, blinking to get rid of the drops of water that beaded his eyelashes. She looked as slender as always, showing no sign of the changes that would take over their lives. He should tell her that he'd decided to give in and let her have her way.

"Darling, about the nanny ..."

She cut him off sharply. "Oh, Matthew. Must we argue about this again?"

He felt aggrieved as only one can when an olive branch has been rejected. "I only meant to say ..."

She turned towards him, holding the full pitcher. "I know your lot believes in living on top of each other, but really. There is such a thing as being too close to one's parents. There's rather a risk of turning one's son into a mother's boy."

Oh, so she was bringing up the big guns. "Well, your lot would let their children be raised by wolves if it meant that they could have an extra hour to dress for dinner."

He sat up so that she could rinse his hair again, and received a pitcher-full of water in his face.

The impact left him stunned and gasping for a moment. When he could catch his breath, the only thing that he could think of to sputter was, idiotically, "That's not how you give someone a bath!"

He turned to look at her and was horrified. His wife, the cool, calm and collected Lady Mary Crawley, had collapsed onto the stool and was weeping uncontrollably. The pitcher had landed on the floor after spilling what was left of the water over her. She was soaked, her face crumpled like a child's, her shoulders heaving.

"Oh my dear." What a pig he was, what a selfish fool. "Mary. Dearest." After some awkward manoeuvring and much sloshing of water, he got his arm around her. She lowered her head onto his wet shoulder, still sobbing.

How terrifying it must be to have a tiny being take possession of your body and your emotions, and yet be utterly helpless and dependent on you for its very life. Why had he not seen this?

"Darling," he ventured tentatively, "if the book frightened you ..."

"Oh, sod the bloody book!" She sat up, picked the book up from the floor, tossed it into the bath and buried her face in the crook of his neck again. Her sobs died away to a few watery sniffles.

He kissed her damp hair. It was a toss-up as to which of them was wetter. "Darling, let's get dried off and go down to dinner. And then we'll sit by the fire and tell each other everything that's worrying us. We'll make our plans for the future together. All right?"

He heard a muffled "All right" in return. They sat together quietly for a minute.

"And you give baths splendidly. A bit splashier than I expected, though."

Lady Mary managed a shaky giggle.

_Searchlights on Health_ sank unheeded to the bottom of the tub.


End file.
